


Grovel

by humanveil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 11:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11252214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: No good deed goes unpunished.





	Grovel

**c. summer, 1996.**

The sky is dark above them; shades of navy and black swirling together, mixed by the occasional grey of a cloud. The trees rustle with wind, the fabric of their cloaks pressed firmly to their bodies. It’s a familiar scene, even after all these years.

It’s late. Well past midnight. But then, these things always were meant for the dead of the night. Too crass for plain day, too horrific.

No, this is much more intimate.

They stand in a wide, incomplete circle. Even now, with most of the inner circle free from Azkaban, there are spaces left unoccupied where bodies should be, but aren’t. Death -- it got a lot of them in the end.

There’s a body amidst the dirt, a human man bent almost in half. He’s on his knees, head bent, hands flat on the ground, body shaking with the recoil of what’s been done to him. What is being done to him.

No one in the crowd feels envy.

“Igor,” says a whispery voice, a quiet tut following the name. It sounds almost sarcastic. Condescending. Like it’s as amusing as it is horrifying. “I warned you.”

“My Lo—”

There’s the wave of a hand, a flick of a wrist -- a flash of bright red and a murmured curse -- and whatever Karkaroff had been about to say is cut short, replaced by the sound of a scream. Harrowing. Like it’s been ripped forcefully from the body’s core.

The Dark Lord is fond of his examples, Severus thinks. He supposes there are some things that will never change.

It had taken a year, but they’d found him eventually. Severus had known they would -- the Dark Lord isn’t fond of turncoats. That knowledge sits more heavily with him than it does the rest of them.

They all watch as Karkaroff’s body continues to shake, as wave upon wave of excruciating pain wracks his body. As fingers scratch against the Earth’s surface, drawing blood as they scramble for something to hold on to, something that may make it easier to endure.

It’s a hopeless effort, and they all know it.

Severus is grateful for the mask. He has long since mastered the art of schooling his expression to one of indifference when faced with sights such as this, but the mask is still a blessing. He knows all too well how easy it is to end up in Igor’s place, how lucky he is to not be there with him, to have had successfully convinced the Dark Lord of his loyalty.

A miracle, really.

“My Lord...” Karkaroff is whispering, words falling from his lips at a rapid rate, so quickly they’re barely comprehensible. Over the sound of the shack on fire, of the audience’s loud laughter, Severus can barely hear what he has to say.

Not that it matters. There is nothing Igor can say to talk himself out of this, no promise or plea that will change the Dark Lord’s mind.

It’s something they all knew when they signed up. There is no running, no changing your mind, no change of heart. The only way out is death.

Severus wonders how he would act, had his place been reversed with Karkaroff’s. If he would beg like Karkaroff is. If he would grovel. If he would pull out every poor, pathetic plea he could think of in the hope his life would be spared.

He doesn’t think so. There is something dignified in dying by the Dark Lord’s hand. Something admirable in doing it gracefully.

This... is just embarrassing.

The Dark Lord murmurs curse after curse, each of them executed flawlessly. Severus watches as Karkaroff’s body is torn apart, as flesh and bone are broken. As blood seeps from wounds, the smell thick and pungent in the air. The deep red mixing with dirt, staining the surface.

It’s rather dramatic, he thinks. The same example could easily be set with a simple Killing Curse.

But it won’t be, never has been. He knows why. It’s meant as a warning. A message to the rest of them. A very obvious threat of what will happen shall they decide to follow Igor’s steps. It doesn’t matter how easily it can be done, the Dark Lord wants them to fear it. Wants them to walk away scared.

There’s a sickening crack as another bone breaks, and Igor’s words are no longer sentences, just sounds mushed together. Slurred with pain.

Severus can hear Bellatrix’s loud cackle, her hums of admiration as the Dark Lord continues his assault. She’s at his right side, gaze hungry, wand held firmly in her hand, ready to use shall she be granted the chance.

She won’t be, but it doesn’t stop her from hoping.

The Dark Lord pauses for a moment, lets Igor whimper in pain at his feet. Lets them all see the impact of his torture. He addresses them at large, words tainted with amusement as he tells them, plain and simple, that this is what they have to look forward to shall they betray him.

As a jet of bright green is sent off towards the grovelling figure, Severus swallows.

A warning indeed.


End file.
